


look what you made me do

by brandflakeeee



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, but basically an au where missy lives because I need it, we all need it, will be adding more tags later, you need it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-08 17:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12869442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandflakeeee/pseuds/brandflakeeee
Summary: The Thirteenth Doctor, freshly regenerated, is just selfish enough to keep Missy in this universe for a little while longer.





	1. last night on earth

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So this is my first foray back into fanfiction in a few years, so forgive me if I'm a bit rusty. I'll be posting other fics in this fandom later, but this little worm was in my brain and needed to get out! I'm not sure how long it'll be just yet, but hopefully you'll join me for the ride with these two Time Lord idiots.

Ash scatters through the air, even though the acrid smoke and snarling fires haven’t reached this far yet. Were it not for the distant sounds of a war raging on, one could nearly mistake the ash for snow. It’s foreign in this forever land of greenery – _too green_ – and scars the area further and further from it’s intended use for a farm.

There’s a ripple between the trees and a loud snap of energy that echoes against the sturdy trunks of the woods – hardly out of place for the cacophony raging beyond into the fields. It seems the air itself has split apart and dumped the frame of a slender blonde woman onto the carpet of underbrush. She gasps, startled; vortex manipulators are extremely tricky and the travel is unsettling – she’s never liked to rely on it, but she isn’t willing to risk the TARDIS being stuck in this hell a second time.

The Doctor stands, the machine strapped to her wrist burning warmly against her skin. It’s disorienting and somewhat painful being here, this ship damned to hell, the souls stranded aboard stuffed into metal casings. She knows how this plays out, and cannot risk interfering. Not more than she already is. Sticks and other debris crack beneath her boots as she tries to get her bearings, trying to remember just _where_ the seven hells the lifts are. She’s tried to get as close as possible, hoping to avoid her own face some distance away where the sounds are coming from, the horrific twisting of metal and the putrid smell of smoke fogging the air. It reminds her of the first days of the Time War, the distant noise and smoke and ash and _hell_ raining down upon them.

But now is not the time to dwell.

She darts through a small thicket, fighting her own memories. It’s always a strange feeling, being close to one’s previous face. The memories and thoughts trickle strangely unbidden into her mind and she has to force them away. She cannot let him know she’s here, or he’ll do something stupid. Really, he already has because she’s here anyway and – it’s complicated, and she prefers to put her mind to the task at hand.

There is purple and flesh dotted against the green.

“Oh, what a mess you’ve done to yourself, Kosh.” Her voice is a whisper as she kneels to the Time Lady strewn across the ground. There isn’t much time; the world is ending around them, thanks to her previous face determined to play martyr. She doesn’t regret it, but it’s given her very little wiggle room with her sly plan, who’s origins she blames entirely on Bill and the water-girlfriend.

_“You’re like Missy now, then, yeah?”_

_Thirteen tilts her head; she’s still admiring herself in the reflection of a TARDIS monitor. The hair, the eyes, the face – this body is fresh and new and while she still feels like a warrior, like the Doctor, she knows her terms are on different ground. Her battles fought with kindness, compassion, and a softer frame than the angles and sharp edges of the Scottish one before her._

_“What, evil?”_

_“You were a man, now you’ve gone all girl. I like it.”_

_Heather makes a noise, and Bill laughs. Even the Doctor grins despite herself, and finds a smile looks rather lovely on this face._

_“Where is Missy?” She asks suddenly, and she doesn’t know why. But she does see the looks the two exchange across from her, and there is a worrying pit developing somewhere under her ribs. She can’t tell if it’s her hearts or her stomach bottoming out. Missy was fine. She’d made it off. She’d been certain of it._

_Hadn’t she?_

_“Didn’t she leave with Mr. Egomania?”_

_Again, the looks, and the Doctor has a vague sick feeling._

_“I think she was trying to help.” Heather says suddenly, slowly. The Doctor’s gaze snaps to her as she continues. “In her own way. She fought with him.”_

_Fighting with the Master is never truly a smart thing to do._ Oh, Missy _, the Doctor thinks, and knows the news that Heather is likely to impart. She doesn’t ask how Heather knows. She’s learned not to ask questions. Not yet. Things are still new and fresh and complicated and it’s all a jumble in her mind, but the thought of Missy lingers at the front of it._

Amber regeneration energy still clings to her fingers – she’d put it off for far too long and leftover energy is still working it’s way through her system. Those hands rest in the space between Missy’s hearts, lingering until the Doctor can feel them fluttering. Clinging to life. She is unmoving, not breathing, but dying can take Time Lords days. Weeks, even.

Guilt coils like a snake in her belly as she imparts the energy through her fingers, through the fabric of Missy’s dress and into her being. A mission to prove her worth, and in the end the Doctor had abandoned her. Like Skaro. Like Gallifrey. How hard Missy had tried, and how hard the Doctor had pushed her. To the point that death had been more preferable to the vault? Then again, she’d gone far beyond suicidal, straight into a new level of self destruction. Missy’s fingers were still stained with tell-tale red-orange blood and the Doctor recalls the vague feel of metal in grabbing her hand some time ago. Less than an hour on Missy’s part. Ages for her own.

Again, she cannot dwell. There isn’t time. Not now, not yet.

Satisfied Missy isn’t going to die in the next few moments, she wraps an arm across her and one beneath her, half shielding her. It’s an awkward hug, but she can’t risk losing her. Not when she’s gone through this much trouble. She has to lean forward to press the button on her vortex manipulator with her nose, but it does the trick.

Time and space swallow them up, and the world explodes.

\-  -  -

_"Koschei, wait up!"_

_"Hurry up!"_

_"You said you'd wait for me! You've -- you're taller!"_

_"Quit whining on, Theta. Just get up here. The view's worth it, I swear."_

_"I'll get there when I get there."_

_"I'm growing facial hair waiting up here."_

_"Just --- oh, that's not even possible!"_

_"Come on!"_

-  -  -

Whispers invade every corner of her mind, soft and insistent. She isn’t sure if they’re past or future, if they’re real or not. It’s giving her a headache, she knows, a dull throb that starts at the back of her skull and radiates out into a permanent weave of pain across her frame. Everything is aching, now that she considers it. Aching and burning. The feeling is both familiar and not.

Breathing is too arduous a task, so she stops. She tests a few outer limbs; wriggling her fingers, and she’s surprised to feel softness. It’s all around her, enveloping her in a strange sort of state.

It isn’t dirt and mud, and for that she’s grateful.

She can’t open her eyes, not immediately. They feel like lead weights, firmly pulling her down. Deep.

Down. Deep. Dark. Sleep.

Sleep. She wants to sleep. That sounds like the most marvelous idea.

So she does. And dreams.

\- - -

When the world shifts around her, she notices. It pricks the edges of this skin, this new environment. But there is still some softness to it. Is she dying? She’s never properly done the death bit before, so she’s in uncharted territory.

She remembers.

The Doctor. Stupid, proud, Theta.

She remembers, and tries to move. There are things to do, like stop him and –

\--her whole body protests and the pain is back, but more faded. Still, the sharp nature of it shoot straight up her spine and even Missy cannot fight it. She grits her teeth and when she suddenly feels hands on her, the lead weights on her eyelids finally seem to give up their battle. The world is an alarming array of colour, dimmed by the face that hovers above.

A pale hand shoots out to grasp the wrist of the weird freak who thinks she can presume to touch her and stops. Warm floods her hand, crawling up her fingers into her palm and wrist. Her senses return and she can suddenly see beyond. She meets the gaze of this not-stranger and holds it evenly.

_Theta_.

The name cries out like a scream in her mind and she can see her Doctor flinch. Still, there is silence in the air that hangs between them – the Doctor’s hands on Missy, Missy’s hand wrapped around one of her wrists. It’s an impasse, and for a moment Missy thinks this is some strange reality. It cannot be real. She is dead, and her mind is playing terrible games. Or worse, her younger self is playing such a cruel joke not even Missy can devise.

“It’s all right.” This not-stranger-Doctor speaks, and Missy believes her.

She knows those eyes, even if the voice and the face are different. Her Doctor.

“You need to rest. It’s all right.” She says again, and even inch of Missy wants to fight. It’s ingrained, an instinct, but something else takes over. A different thought, a different instinct. Cultivated in her time in the vault, perhaps, or perhaps it’s something else entirely.

_Okay_.

She sleeps.

The Doctor stays.

-  -  -

The teacup trembles in her hand, and the Doctor has to set it down to keep from sloshing it down her front. She feels a mix of emotions, and her new brain can’t sort them out properly. This brain is different and while she has her memories (most of them), her thoughts (most of them), and everything else (some of it), she can’t gauge her own reactions until they’ve already happened. This is not the angry-Scot or the naïve-bowtie or anything else before. It’s new and old all at once. She wants to scream, dig her nails into her palms until they bleed.

But that doesn’t help. It never has.

Curled on a step of the TARDIS as the ship hums around her, she stares across at the dimly lit console.

“Did I do the right thing?” She asks aloud to the ship – (and this voice! It’s so strange!) – who gives a faint prod to the back of her mind in return. The Doctor gives a half grin, patting the step beside her as if to comfort the TARDIS.

“I know you’re worried. I am too. But – she didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that.” A pause. “She would’ve done it for me.” Another pause. “I think.” Hum. “I hope.”

She runs a hand through her hair, fluffing it about to try and steady and steel her nerves. Satisfied, she picks up her tea and takes a tentative sip, testing how she likes this flavor (she’s tried fourty-seven so far and they all taste horrific). She likes this flavor. A bit bitter, a bit sweet. A perfect balance. She’ll have to label the tin.

“I have a vow to keep.” Thirteen muses, again aloud, her only listener the faithful TARDIS. “I mean, I don’t think it’s void. I think it’s still a thing. I _have_ to keep it, I promised. Death doesn’t just kill that contract, and I mean . . . I don’t have anything harrowing to do for a while. It couldn’t hurt? And she _had_ been flying you, so if I needed to take her somewhere I could just quantum lock the controls and . . . .”

The TARDIS gives a sharp jab that has her rubbing the back of her neck.

“Yes, thank you for your input. Noted. Go back to sleep and leave me be if you’re not going to be helpful.” The Doctor scowls vaguely at the console, which dims further after a few minutes and leaves the whole room bathed in a soft blue light.

“I did the right thing.” She says again, to herself, a quiet whisper. She doesn’t know if she’s trying to convince her ship or herself more.

But there is more to her saving than her vow. There’s always been more. Vaguely, she thinks her regeneration might have slapped some fashion of sense into her brain. She thinks Missy would have done it herself had she’d been able.

_She’d been coming to help you. She tried to KILL herself for you._

_Only injure,_ her mind reminds itself. Her younger face had been a step ahead – thankfully Thirteen is mindful to be just another ahead than either of them. There is good to Missy, she knows. Somewhere. The idea that she had even entertained the idea of helping, of standing by her side, is proof enough of that. Even still, spending an eternity in a vault isn’t going to continue nurturing that idea. She needs a better one.

First, she needs Missy to wake up.

It’s not a conversation she wants to have, but it’s coming. When she wakes, there will be words. Missy will probably call her stupid, among other things, for wasting regeneration energy and time and efforts on her.

The longer she considers it, however, the more the Doctor doesn’t regret it.

She’s just selfish enough to keep Missy in this universe for a little while longer. Her equal on every front. Her enemy in every match. Her friend since before time itself. She has a lot of atoning for, but the Doctor is no innocent either. Still, her hatred for the rest of her species runs deep to her core, and she knows Missy shares that core. Perhaps it’s what bonds them, when everything else is stripped away. A desperate hate for the rest of their kind, a longing need to defy every logic ever created by the posh, horrific Time Lords who thinks themselves gods.

She lifts her teacup to her lips again, frowning when she finds it’s gone tepid.

“We need her, old girl.” The Doctor speaks again when she stands, running an affectionate hand across the edge of the console. It warms beneath her fingers, hesitantly agreeing.

“There wouldn’t be much of a universe to save without her destroying it, after all.”

-  -  - 

_"You're right. The view was worth it."_

_"Told you so."_

_"I'd stay here forever if I could."_

_"---we could. I mean. We don't have to go back."_

_"What, take to the stars?"_

_"Yeah. We'll steal a TARDIS from the nursery, and run."_

_"All the stars?"_

_"A thousand of them, if you want."_

_"Promise?"_


	2. bird with a broken wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind responses! I appreciate every kudos and comment sent my way. <3

Missy wakes.

It’s slow, because the weights on her eyelids are back. Things are murky, hazy, and she feels as if she’s climbed out of hell itself (the proper one, not her matrix one). Memories try to surface in the black stillness of her mind, but it aches and there is pain the more she tries to pull them. Pain is good, pain she can do. Pain means she’s alive.

Being _warm_ is a new sensation; she hadn’t frozen in the vault, but it certainly hadn’t been the warmest. Space heaters had done the trick, and for a moment she can’t remember a time waking without her toes or fingers freezing. She curls further in on herself, burrowing deeper beneath the blankets. Perhaps she’ll put off waking for a few moments longer.

Her mind was turning now, however, and not so easy to shut off. Rolling onto her side the Time Lady blinked once, twice, and begins to take in the dimly lit room around her. It isn’t the vault, as she’s already affirmed. It isn’t that stupid farmhouse either. She can feel a low hum as her eyes adjust and more of the room comes into proper view. TARDIS. A room. Her room. Her bed.

_Sentimental idiot_.

Vaguely she wondered if the Doctor she remembers is a dream. The Doctor-Woman. What a copy-cat.

She tested her limbs slowly, feeling them pull and ache when she stretches. Good. She’s put together, at least. Hasn’t lost anything. She can already piece together the general idea of what’s happened. She’d been nearly dead. Now she wasn’t. The Doctor was involved. It was old hat, really.

And yet, she can’t help but feel somehow _grateful_.

Oh, junior had done a number on her. The laser to the back had been the last straw in a very unnerving set of events that had ultimately pushed her to the edge. A bad influence, he’d been. Even when she had _just_ started to earn the Doctor’s trust. She’d _earned_ that outing, to prove herself, and while she knows deep in herself that she will never be what the Doctor considers _good_ , she can at least try for some balance that will gain that favor back. Standing with him had been the goal, the idea, that _moment_ because Missy isn’t stupid; she knows the Doctor. She knows the values carried in that big head, and didn’t need a speech to prove it. Missy had known then and there, back on that farm, where her loyalties had rested. While vault living hadn’t been preferable, if they’d made it out alive she would’ve stayed in that stupid cube for another nine decades to prove it.

That had definitely all gone out the window.

With some difficulties she wasn’t eager to admit to, Missy pushed herself up onto her elbows and then into a sitting position. Things were sore and she reeked of ash, soot, and something else – regeneration energy, she noted. It’s undeniable scent and feel of _life_ thrumming through her veins was unmistakable. Which didn’t seem right, as the laser had been fortified to prevent that from happening.

_Stupid, sentimental, Doctor_.

Her Victorian garb missing, she resorted to the robe draped over the back of a chair that looked as if it hadn’t moved in the decades since she’d left it there. Oh, she _hated_ this, feeling all out of sorts and too weak to do anything. She wore her clothing like armor and with the robe, it hardly seemed like enough to prevent a dent much less anything prominent. It made her feel vulnerable in a way she hadn’t felt in some time.

Not to be deterred, however, Missy belted it firmly around herself and tried to swallow the feeling of her stomach in her throat. Part of her wished she’d simply regenerated fully; the pain would have been brief, and she could have already moved on to better things. Instead, she’d been left with an aching head and a dull ache along the length of her spine that made her unable to walk just quite right. Her body was still healing itself, fixing the damage done now that a touch of extra arton energy had boosted her own systems into high gear.

Using the wall to keep her balance, Missy flung open the door to the corridor. The ship hummed beneath her feet, the grating digging into her skin on certain patches of the flooring. It all looked the same, though there were no other doors on this particular corridor.

“Cut me some slack today, pretty. I’ve just died.” She murmured, leaning in to press her cheek to the wall. The cool metal felt wonders on her face, helping pull her further away from that dreadful abyss of sleep. Fatigue still lingered, but there were more important things on the agenda and Missy had intentions of completing them before she played Sleeping Beauty again.

The TARDIS, however, seemed to take pity on the Time Lady. At the very least, was threatened she might start pulling wiring apart if she didn’t get her way – which, Missy quite frankly _would_. The hall shifted and she took a few more tentative steps. Her perception was still off, so keeping herself grounded proved difficult. She trailed along the hall with her hand against the wall, nails digging into the metal to keep herself balanced.

She’d brought this on herself, truly.

Desperation had settled in sometime during that second week in the farmhouse. With Potts still unconscious, the Doctor not speaking to her, and Junior blurring the lines between the pair of them, it had taken it’s toll. A sparse library kept her occupied for a few hours but beyond that, it felt like being trapped in that stupid vault again. Closed, cut off, and forcing her to reflect. She hadn’t cried, no, those tears hadn’t come, but she’d lashed out multiple times at Nardole and the furniture in her room. Nothing had been spared, and she’d sat among the splintered wood like a spoiled child.

She did not deserve that.

She did not deserve the Doctor.

The sheer patience he held for her, hoping to _change_ her or at the very least, bring her back to reality. But Missy had grounded herself in reality some time prior – but whatever he needed to sleep at night, she imagined. If locking her in a vault for a thousand years would do it, fine. So be it. Let Theta play the righteous hero. She would never measure up to him, not anymore. Not by his standards. How long she had spent trying to make him see that, even still trapped on that stupid farm. In the end, she’d taken matters into her own hands.

But he’d been right, of course. Always was. Some things needed to be stood up for.

Children would’ve burned on that farm.

She locked that thought in a box in her mind, shoved it into the darkest recesses, and threw away the key. That was not a road she was eager to travel just yet. Not now.

The console room had changed, but only slightly. She lingered in the doorway, scanning the room for the Doctor – she was bent low over the opposite side of the main hub, murmuring to herself as she poured over something Missy couldn’t quite see.

“Why?”

The Doctor’s head snapped up, and Missy could finally get a proper look at that face. The new one. Still those eyes, though. The eyes that held entire galaxies. The galaxies full of the stars they’d promised one another to visit.

“You’re awake.” The Doctor shuffled toward her, wearing a look Missy associated with concern. Hands reached out and instinctively Missy drew back. The Doctor did too, realizing, brows furrowing as she took in Missy’s appearance.

“Why?” Missy demanded in a sharper tone, finding her voice. _Why didn’t you let me die?_

“Because I realized what you meant. Too late, of course. I should’ve come sooner, I should’ve realized.” Thirteen looks troubled for a moment and Missy studies her (quite pleased that they’re rather similar in height now, and she isn’t looking _up_ ). “I died. On that ship. Same as you. Someone rescued you. I wanted to pay it forward.”

What a rubbish excuse, Missy thought. But typical Doctor. Lying straight through her teeth. For now, she decides not to press the situation because quite frankly, she's not up to an argument for at least a few more hours. Perhaps it's why she's being particularly polite and not  _raging_ at the Doctor for going and getting himself killed in the first place. No, instead, she stows that conversation for later. Back at the vault. If she's put back there. 

_Of course you'll be put back there_. 

_We'll just burn that bridge when we get to it_.

“Sentimental of you.” Missy drawled, and tried not to flinch at the hand the Doctor insisted on touching her with. It was a gentle touch, of course, trying to ascertain what remained of her injuries no doubt. Missy closed her eyes, breathing sharply when Thirteen’s hand came to rest in the space between her hearts.

“Just checking.” She murmured and was suddenly far closer than she’d been before when Missy cracked an eye open at her. This close, she could see every freckle that crossed those cheeks. A bit soft looking, for the Doctor, but there’s strength yet hidden there.

“I’m alive, thanks for asking.”

“I know. I made sure of that.” She had the audacity to look _pleased_ for a moment, before the ghost of a smile was gone. She dropped her hand away and Missy frowned in return, not realizing how much she immediately missed the warmth on her chest.

“Can I get you anything?” The Doctor offered next, and Missy’s frown didn’t go away.

“Tea, if you can make it properly now. Without seventeen sugars.”

The Doctor offered out a hand and Missy studied it with a critical eye for a long moment. How depraved her other Doctor had been of touch, shying away from it because he couldn’t trust her. Something had shifted now, and Missy felt a tad bit of hope blooming somewhere within that perhaps this Doctor would accept her, would return her friendship.

Missy silently accepted the offered hand.

It’s the closest she can offer to a _thank you_ right now, because she doesn’t think she could say the words without mucking them all about. The Doctor seems to accept this silent thanks, and heads off down another corridor with Missy trailing like a lost shadow behind.

“Biscuits too?”

“Will Jaffa cakes do?”

“I suppose.”


	3. i am your friend

“Why do you do that?”

The Doctor looks up, snapped back into present when she realizes she’s been spoken to. Her brows knit together and she turns, surprised to find Missy there. She’s still not corseted up; in fact, she’s wearing what the Doctor _knows_ to be a button up from a previous face and trousers that look like they belonged to a companion from some time ago. She wonders vaguely if she still has those clothes – of course she does, stupid Doctor, the TARDIS can get them for her anytime she likes – then she decides, perhaps, there’s far too many memories attached. But certainly Missy is not that sentimental, not like he Doctor is.

Either way, it’s a topic she doesn’t bring up. Missy is fragile, still.

“Do what?” At this point, she’s forgotten entirely what she’s doing, hands half hovering over the TARDIS console. She plants them firmly as Missy comes around the center ring, fingers clutched to a mug of tea that still has steam unfurling from it’s surface.

“Keep us parked here.”

“I haven’t decided where to go yet.” Thirteen says it with a factual tone, the expression from before still etched into her face. From Missy’s own look, she knows the Time Lady believes her almost as much as she believes herself – which is none.

There’s an elephant in the room; the Vault.

It waits, empty of it’s prisoner, and the Doctor is defying her vow. Then again, that vow has gotten them both killed so does it really still hold true? The Doctor isn’t sure of that, either. There are too many uncertainties, so the vast expanse of blank space they’re in now seems suitable until decisions are made, words are said. Missy certainly hasn’t broached the topic of her forever imprisonment. Perhaps they’re both afraid to.

Missy hums, as if to accept this answer, and the Doctor is grateful. Still, she watches the other with the eyes of a hawk as Missy sets her teacup down gently against a flat surface of the console, ad her full attention goes to the Doctor.

Oh. Oh no.

Heartfelt conversations are not something she is mentally prepared for just yet, if you please. She’s still trying to punish herself for bringing Missy back, and there are too many ---

That train of thought comes to an abrupt halt, however, as Missy’s fingers with their chipped nail polish fist into the Doctor’s shirt, firmly.

“I should be dead, dearie.”

“You’re not allowed to be.”

“Who made you God of Death?”

“We made a promise, Missy.”

“We’ve made many promises, _Thete_.” The silent ‘and-broken-them’ hovers in the air between them. Thirteen finds a grip on the console, prepared to dig in her heels if Missy starts to drag her somewhere or does something they’ll both regret.

Turns out it’s neither, because she suddenly releases her and returns to her tea with another hum. The Doctor blinks; her ever changing moods are fast and furious and harsh, and she gives herself a moment to recover from this particular bout of whiplash.

“Are you okay?” She offers, and it’s a stupid question to ask. She regrets opening her mouth when those icy eyes turn on her.

“No. Is that the answer you want?”

“No. _No_. I --- _Missy_. I know what you did. To yourself.” The Doctor frowns, and this time it’s her that steps toward the other Time Lady, who looks positively affronted. She blinks, and the Doctor can practically see that harsh battle armor slide into a perfectly poised expressed on her face. Blank, innocent.

“Hush, dear Doctor. Don’t spoil the mood.”

“You ended him. It’s my turn to know why?”

Missy doesn’t answer, and the Doctor takes another step. Reaches out to touch her, and Missy takes a step back; how strange their positions have switched; she recalls Missy silently begging for touch – yet here they are. The Doctor clears her throat.

“Tell me, Missy. Please.”

“Is it because you want vindication? Because you want to know if you were right and I’ve turned good? Well, I _haven’t_ , Doctor – !” Missy’s teacup explodes into shards at their feet and the TARDIS gives a thrum of warning. The Doctor stares at her once friend with an unchanged expression; her outbursts are nothing new, but Missy looks conflicted. Startled.

“You were coming to help me.” Thirteen dares again, pressing for information. Missy snarls.

“Because you were going to get yourself killed! And look what happened – you did it anyway, because I wasn’t there to pull your burning body from the ashes you stupid, idiot, fool!” Like a wounded animal trapped into a corner, Missy’s stance turned defensive. Thirteen recoiled for a moment, merely a flinch, before she stepped over the remains of the tea and grabbed Missy’s wrists. Gently, but firmly enough that as the other tried to pull away, it was a useless attempt.

“Let go of me before I break your hands, Doctor.” Missy warned, voice darkened and growling. A far cry from her attitude in the minutes before when she’d stepped into the TARDIS.

“You wanted to talk, so we’re talking.”

“Do you honestly think I was moved enough by your silly little speech? If you were dead, that little egghead would’ve shoved me back in that box without another visitor for ninety decades. I could rot away as a corpse – no, dear Doctor. You were my survival. I help you, you help me. Isn’t that the _nice and good_ thing to do?”

She jerked her hands free, and Thirteen let her, silently defeated. Missy glowered, simmering silently in a passive attempt at anger.

“Just dump me back into my little box, bring me take away and books, and you can go find another little human to spend time with outside of your conjugal visits with me in hell. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.” Missy’s voice was quieter this time, but the resentment still lingered. A warning. An ultimatum.

“Is that what you really want, Missy?”

“Since when have you ever asked me what I wanted?” She scoffed, bending to pick up the broken shards of tea cup without another word. For a moment, all the noise in the room was the soft hum of the shift, and the gentle rustle of fabric as Missy moved.

Thirteen knelt, and reached out with her hands cupped together. Missy dumped the broken porcelain into them without hesitation as she plucked them from the floor, attention on every last little piece.

“You should get some rest.” The Doctor offered quietly, and Missy snorted.

“I’ve slept three days straight. I’ll pass.”

“You _died_ , Missy. It takes time to recover from that. Regeneration sucks all the energy away and even if you went through a partial one, you’re not immune.”

“How _sentimental_ , Doctor, you fussing about me as if you care.”

“I do.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

It’s Missy’s turn (again) to grab at her, dropping the shattered porcelain all over again. Her hands come to grasp the Doctor’s face with a fierce _need_ , dragging her forehead to meet her own. The Doctor gasps, sharply, her mind suddenly invaded by screaming. Unseen voices, blurred images of burning planets, vibrant suns, punctuated by voices she cannot make out.

A rhythm, beating out double, before it switches into an unsteady heartbeat. More images come to life in her mind, Missy’s spilling over into her own like a rush of hot lava spewing forth from a mountain. It meets the still waters of the Doctor’s own, throwing everything in a vibrant, white hot chaos that threatens to pull them both under.

Gallifrey, then the space ship. The cybermen. The graveyard. The vault. The memories are like harsh paintings that she can see all at once, through her own eyes and through Missy’s. She feels her stomach lurch, but she says nothing as things tumble and fall into her mind with no signs of ebbing. Both recent and ancient memories and thoughts, coming so quickly Thirteen can’t bear to sort through them all. She picks up flickers of more powerful memories, the tones of more prominent voices throughout their lifetimes.

It takes her several long moments, but she pushes back. The memories stutter, and Thirteen opens her own thoughts to Missy. She interchanges them, responds with ones of her own. Happier ones, kinder ones, of Koschei and of them, in every era she can think of.

_I am your friend_.

She says it, both in her mind and out loud, and feels something hot on her face. There’s a sharp sensation, another intake of breath, and the bond is broken instantly. Missy has pulled away several inches, fingers gripping Thirteen’s shoulder’s now as she struggles to take in breath. The Doctor realizes the hot on her face is tears – Missy’s tears, which now slide across the pale cheeks of the Time Lady across from her.

“It got out of control, I remembered too much.” Missy’s voice wavers, and Thirteen is hardly convinced, but doesn’t press it. Instead she lifts her hands slowly to mirror Missy’s from before, taking Missy’s face in her hands and using thumbs to brush tears away as they fall.

They stay like that, until the tears subside and Missy is red faced. For the first time, Missy meets the Doctor’s gaze and the world lurches again.

And oh, how the galaxies seem to blaze when Missy is suddenly against her, kissing her fiercely as if everything is ending and for all the Doctor knows, it might be.

But for a moment, there is peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


	4. i think there's a fault in my code

The fields stretched on in every direction, red grasses rippling with the winds as it snaked between mountains, eventually giving away to streets and buildings and the spires of the Citadel. How the city gleaned in the fading daylight, the twin suns setting the sky ablaze in all their glory. Time seemed unimportant, flowing and ebbing as softly and gently as a creek in a quiet wood. How lovely Gallifrey had been before it had been tainted, destroyed, left into barren sands by barren people.

“Missy.”

Turning her gaze away from the distant mountains, wind sending strands of dark hair in her own face, she found the Doctor staring back at her. Decked out in all the glory of a Prydonian Time Lord, robes of red with the golden lettering swirling into unending shapes, blending into patterns she couldn’t quite see. Her hand was held out to her, waiting, offering, and Missy felt the smile that wormed it’s way across her features.

She, too, wore the Time Lord garb. When she dropped her hand in the Doctor’s the enormous sleeves covered them, their touching hidden away. A secret, between them, as it always had been. It was a lulling feeling, pulling her in like a black hole pulling in an exploding supernova, the universe uncaring beyond the pair.

Missy closed her eyes, and when she opened them again it was to dim lighting, a thrumming ship, and the warmth of another body pressed against her own.

A dream, she realized blearily. Not her’s, but the Doctor’s; she could still feel it swirling in the back of her own mind like a golden memory, a still pool waiting to be stepped in. How lovely it would be to step back inside it, let the world waste away around them, but Missy resisted. Instead, she began the process of untangling her mind from the Doctor’s, the quiet stillness of her thoughts speaking to the fact the other Time Lady was still asleep next to her.

The burning chaos of her own mind returned, let free beyond the soft subduing the Doctor’s mind had made on her. Voices she relegated to one locked box in her mind, the screams in another, names in a further file, and so on until she regained some semblance of reality and control back in her own head. Twisting, she found the Doctor pressed against her, arm nestled around her waist.

It was certainly not the first time they’d awoke in bed together, though last night had been nothing spectacular. The universe could’ve inverted and Missy wouldn’t have noticed in honesty, too wrapped up into the Doctor as she was. Like the twin suns of Gallifrey they were, burning so brightly to try and outshine the other and threatening to set fire to everything around them in the blaze. She reached out and trailed a finger across the Doctor’s furrowing brow, her soft face, down her jaw. How soft this Doctor was, and yet there was a hardness beneath that skin that Missy knew all too well. The Doctor, an oxymoron for all the world to see.

Her own pillow was still stained with tears; the evening hadn’t topped Missy’s list of favorites. While they’d been in bed together, yes, clothes had remained. The memories she’d unleashed inside her own head had become far too much and the tears had not stopped, and as much as she’d simply wanted to see how well this Doctor was with those lips beyond kissing, it hadn’t gone further. Perhaps it was pity, or something else Missy couldn’t quite figure out, but the Doctor had brought her to the inner sanctum – the Doctor’s bedroom. She’d cried harder. An utter embarrassment, really. Almost dying had certainly done more for her emotions than being locked away had.

She wasn’t sure what time exhaustion had taken over, but she vaguely recalled the Doctor reading aloud to her until the dreams had invaded their tangled mess of minds. It was a strange feeling. Missy hardly dreamed, and when she did, it was more nightmares than anything of remote good.

“Missy.”

Blinking, Missy realized the Doctor was very much awake and staring at her with those big brown eyes peeking up beneath fringes of blonde hair. She huffed, blowing them out of her face, but neither had yet to make a move to untangle themselves physically from one another. Missy had missed touch, missed the closeness they’d once shared, and vowed to commit this to her memory to sate her in the days to come. How easy it would be, to fall into the Doctor’s temptations. The promises of a future, together, and more touches and kisses and – she knew the Doctor wasn’t doing it on purpose, yet Missy felt furiously compelled anyway.

“Hm?” Missy gave a distracted hum.

“You need a shower.”

“Is that an offer to join me, dear?” Missy trilled and the Doctor furrowed her brows. Still, neither made the effort to move. While she had fully healed, there was a fragility that Missy still felt, the feeling still lingering. While she didn’t plan on taking any laser screwdrivers to the back again, that had certainly been a brush too close to death for her own liking. Not while the Doctor had still been on that stupid ship, hoping, _praying_ she’d return, she liked to imagine. How she would have arrived just in the nick of time to save them all. It was something the Doctor did; Missy wondered vaguely how it would feel. Just once.

“What were you dreaming about?” She asked, suddenly, to fill the silence that had stretched on between them. The Doctor turned a shade of pink.

“Gallifrey. Being home.” She admitted quietly, not quite meeting Missy’s gaze. “I like to think it’d be nice to return, to actually help it. The Time Lords can sod off, but there are innocent Gallifreyans there. Our families. It’s a stupid dream; the entire planet is far too tainted with Rassilon’s meddling. Even banished he’d still figure out a reason to muck it about. But I’d like to go back. With you.”

“We’d be shot on sight. A little birdy told me you made quite the mess when you were there last. Shot the General, all that. How very naughty of you, Thete.”

“Yes, well, love makes us do strange things.” The Doctor murmured, and when Missy glanced over the other was staring directly at her now, unwavering.

“Don’t.” Missy warned quietly, before she made the move of attempting to get up. Untangling herself from the Doctor, from the sheets, she ran a hand through her hair and quietly bemoaned the tangled state of it as well.

“Shower.” The Doctor repeated. “You can go first.”

“So not joining me, then?” Missy faked an offended look, which earned her a pillow to the face from the Doctor.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

With only some hesitation and lingering, Missy dragged herself from bed and swept off toward the attached bathroom; her things were still as she’d left them years ago, as if a day had not passed between her previous presence and now. Tilting her head, Missy studied her reflection when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

Nothing had changed, when the Doctor had breathed life back into her. The same eyes, same sharp cheekbones, same fierce face met her back, thought the expression was different. More melancholy, perhaps. More weighted. She prided herself on the ability to hide her own emotions, her true intentions, and this face had served the best of them all for that particular skill – and yet, staring back into her own face, it’s difficult to hide such things.

She swallowed thickly, and tugged sharply at her clothing before stepping into the shower. As hot as the TARDIS would allow the water to go, she let her body melt beneath the heated spray. Dark curls fell limp and drab against pale flesh, her eyes closed against the wet. She wanted to scrub her skin red and raw until there was nothing left, or perhaps a new Time Lord left behind in the remains. Emotion seemed to linger, clinging to her very bones and Missy unable to block it out – she blamed the Doctor. The regeneration energy that now laced with her own was distinctly the Doctor’s, and perhaps some of that horrible sentimentality she touted had rubbed off in it’s own way.

Missy scowled and pressed her forehead against the shower tiles at the thought.

She heard the door open, a rustle of fabric, and then the door closed again. Missy didn’t stir until she could feel the imprint of the tile edge pressed semi-permanent into her skin. A towel and clothes left for her on the countertop. She shivered – the Doctor _caring_ for her. It echoed the idea of the vault back into her memory and she sneered at the clothing, letting it flutter to the floor as she snatched the towel and wrapped herself and her stringy hair into it. Steam unfurled from her skin smelling of lavender, and Missy strode purposefully toward the Doctor’s closet to find something else, something for _herself_ , thank you very much.

She knew the TARDIS had it’s own massive wardrobe room, but something about claiming an outfit from this particular closet seemed to suit her current interests. She settled for a pair of dark trousers and a pastel purple button up. It would suit, for now. She snagged the shoes from the ignored pile of clothing in the bathroom, pulling them on over stockings (old habits, really) before towel drying her hair and throwing it up haphazardly on the top of her head with a borrowed tie.

Missy made it approximately three steps out of the bedroom when the ship gave a sudden and horrifying lurch to the left, and she had to grasp the doorframe to keep herself upright. The whole machine shuddered beneath her feet, a wheezing groan coming from somewhere deep within it’s systems.

Scrambling to regain her footing, Missy kept one hand leveraged on the wall and picked her way back to the console room and a very frantic Doctor, who was toying about the console like a child with a broken toy.

“What in seven hells have you done now?!” Missy demanded sharply, but the Doctor barely paid her any mind. The TARDIS lurched again, in the opposite direction, and both Time Ladies clambered to grab onto the railing to keep themselves from listing with it.

Swearing loudly, Missy reached out to try and flip a switch, a lever, anything to get them stabilized but the TARDIS seemed to not be having it. The doors flung themselves open, spilling out into chilly air somewhere above --- they’d flown through the time vortex, it seemed, and directly to some planet some time and some place that she couldn’t bother trying to place with her limited view.

“Oi! I am not doing this again!” The Doctor shouted over the din of the alarms wheezing around them. She, too, was trying to reach the console, but the ship was listing so severely that it was difficult to gain purchase on anything. The TARDIS seemed more than determined to pitch them both out. Missy swore again.

“You’ve done it now!” She snapped, and the Doctor shot a scowling expression at her. The ship bucked and reared like a creature trying to dispel a rider, and Missy’s grip around the railing faltered enough for her to slip. Her body scraped across the grated flooring straight toward the open doors, but the Doctor snatched onto her sleeve to stop her halt. Momentarily, at least.

The ship pitched harder, and the Doctor’s grip on the ship fell away.

The night air was suddenly around them, rushing by with loud whistling as the pair fell into a freefall above the surface of a planet. Laughter rang out, and Missy vaguely recognized the sound as her own. Limbs flailing, the Doctor was trying to find some way to slow her landing off to her left, but Missy simply let the air whirl around them.

_This is what you get for messing with time, dear Doctor. It comes to claim us all anyway, in the end._


	5. know your enemy

Red.

The color felt burned into her eyes, even closed. Dyed into her skin, soaking her to her very core until the seeping color consumed her entirely. That was the danger of it, really.

The Doctor opened her eyes and groaned, greeting with burning, bright, light and gritty sand scratching at her exposed skin. She felt like a slitheen that had been left out to dry, she was so blistering hot. Face dry, lips cracked, skin flushed. Inhaling sharply brought her to pause, lips parting to taste the energy in the air. It reeked of radiation, stardust, and arton energy dappled with a smattering of time; it left a bitter taste on her tongue and a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Look at you, Doctor.”

Pushing herself up, the Doctor felt the urge to bury her face back into the sand. Sitting up was a chore, and the bright light from the twin suns did nothing to aid her view of the figure who’d spoken; although seeing was not something entirely needed. The Doctor knew immediately the owner, and it only served as further confirmation at her current location.

“If you could at least wait until I’m more consciously aware to start in on me, Ohila, we’ll get on a far lot better.”

The leader of the Sisterhood of Karn did nothing but give a spiteful chuckle, and offer a hand down to the Doctor. The Time Lord took it, using the momentum to haul herself to her feet and dust free the red sand clinging to her skin and clothes; even at her best efforts, however, she knew it would still linger. Impossible to get rid of.

“You look awful.”

“As do you, Time Lord.”

Gallifrey felt ever much the same, the air charged with electricity that made her hair stand up on end. A brief glance around told her they were not far from her old stomping grounds; meadows of red grasses lie just beyond the next hill, shaded by the trees that grew halfway up Mt. Perdition until the barren climate could encourage no more growth. The Academy was there, nestled in the rock face, it’s great glass walkways connecting it to the Citadel of the Time Lords --- which was visible now to the Doctor, beyond Ohila and hardly hidden by the hovercraft she’d clearly arrived in. For the first time the Doctor noted the woman was not alone; she was flanked by no less than four infantry from Gallifrey’s highest operative group, judging by the swirling script on their armor. The Doctor arched a brow and said nothing, however, noting their group was short.

“Where’s Missy?”

“In time.” Ohila dismissed her question much like a mother to a child, and frustration flared deep within her bones. Rebellion. It was instinctive to her on this planet, a second nature implanted by years of loathing toward her own species.

“Tell me where Missy is.” The Doctor demanded, and she saw one guard shift his weapon uncertainly.

“She’s _fine_ , Doctor.” Ohila snapped sharply. “You’re coming with us.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Your ship dumped you here, you have little choice.”

“I have enough logic to know I’d rather sit in this sand for a decade and a half than go anywhere with that lot.” She gestured at the guards. “Because I know you’re going to the Citadel. I swore I’d never step foot in that place again.”

“The Lady President requested your presence. I’d not refuse her, if I were you.” Ohila replied, unbothered by the Time Lord’s barbs. “Besides, your friend is already there.”

“What are you doing to Missy?” The Doctor took a step forward, alarm in her tone. “Where have you taken her?”

“You seem to _forget_ , the last time you were here you broke numerous laws both civil, lawful, and those of general time. You removed someone from their timeline, and never put them back. You broke the rules. You’re very good at that, still. They intend to right your wrongs.”

“You can’t put Missy back there on that ship!”

“It’s not me, Doctor. Your fellow species. The Sisterhood has no interests in--.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bollocks Ohila. We both know you’ve been manipulating Time Lord society since Pythia lived.” She snapped across her. Ohila looked as if she’d been struck for a moment, before her features schooled into something neutral.

“Either way, if you intend to stop them you’ll get on that ship there and go to the Citadel as the Lady President requests.”

“---did you say _Lady_ President?”

The Doctor’s question went unanswered as Ohila turned and started walking back toward the ship. The sinking feeling in the bit of her stomach grew larger, deeper, until she was certain it would swallow her whole. The heat was beginning to get to her, the sun blistering her skin; she truly didn’t want to find out how well this body sunburned, in truth.

Then there was Missy.

Scowling faintly at Ohila’s back, the Doctor stomped after her through the sand. She barely glanced at the armed guards, who shuffled nervously when she brushed past. She had never intended to be feared, but if it got that trigger happy lot to leave her alone, she’d be all the better for it. Some special forces, if they were afraid of her at any rate. Gallifrey was losing its touch. Like a scolded child, the Doctor threw herself into one of the seats near the bridge of the ship, arms folded across her chest. She could see the Citadel through the massive windows at the front, glinting and gleaming and looking like all the pride that the Time Lords touted it as.

It made her sick.

As the hovership made it’s way toward the Citadel, the Doctor took the ample time to pull off her shoes and dump the sand out of them onto the floor before lacing them back up. Sand in her pockets and wherever else she could find joined in until there was a small hill of red sand. Spite, she told herself smugly. Even if it was childish in it’s entirety. At least she hadn’t taken a permanent marker to the walls and written crude things. Yet.

At touch down, she was half a step behind Ohila. The hangar bay was nothing spectacular, though she noticed several pilots and their crew had stopped whatever they were doing to immediately stare as she walked across. She’d changed, yes, but it didn’t stop other Time Lords and respective Gallifreyans picking up on her specific energy. It was laced well into her DNA, unable to be rewritten by even the harshest of regenerations. She was still the Doctor. Time War Champion. Whatever else they touted her as now.

A lift carried them up, passed too many floors for her to count. She knew her way well around the Citadel, having spent far too much time in it during previous faces. Still the same gaudy appearance, a lavish display of wealth and power that only the most egotistical could appreciate. Fortunately most Time Lords were of that mindset. How _droll_ it had been to listen to conversations once upon a time about the improving architecture of the Citadel.

Somewhere near the top, the lift doors opened. Ohila stepped out and to the side and the Doctor followed; two of the guards from the ship still flanked them, which had made it a very awkward ride in the lift. Nevertheless, the Doctor was faced with two more armed guards on either side of a double set of doors encrusted with the Presidential seal of Gallifrey. She felt like a kid sent to the principal’s office.

“Go on, then.” Ohila gestured forward, clearly indicating she would not be joining her further.

“So they’ve got you running errands for them now?” The Doctor asked over her shoulder.

“Only the ones I want to.” Ohila replied just as smartly. “Good luck.”

She stepped back into the lift, and the Doctor was left alone with armed guards and a set of doors.

“Suppose you lot aren’t going to let me just pop back in the lift and leave?”

She received no response, and rubbed the back of her neck almost nervously. For how much she loathed the place, it didn’t make her any less anxious about what lie beyond those doors. Last time it had been Rassilon, so determined to make her life a literal living hell. Her track record with Gallifreyan Presidents in general (barring herself, of course) wasn’t great as it was.

Inhaling deeply, she steeled herself and shoved the doors open.

They shut neatly behind her the moment she stepped into the room.

The office hadn’t changed much, it’s ornate fixtures glistening in the sunlight that streamed through the massive windows out to the balcony that overlooked the entire Citadel. The desk was neat and organized, not a pen out of place – which was odd, if she considered it. Everything looked far too neat and clean and organized for any President she had known before.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

The chair was faced away from her, but as the voice spoke it twisted around behind the desk like some terrible imitation of a Bond villain. Her face scrunched immediately at the figure presented there. Ohila had said _Lady_ and as far as she were aware, that meaning hadn’t changed – yet the figure before her was male. He was dressed in a crisp black suit with just-visible Gallifreyan writing on parts of it she couldn’t make out. The accents were red and gold which told her Prydonian chapter, though she didn’t recognize the face. Not instantly, of course.

The Doctor took a step forward. Then two. Her gaze met the strangers, studying, trying to ascertain –

“Oh, stars, tell me _you’re_ not the bloody President!”

Irving Braxiatiel’s lips twitched as if he wanted to smile, but the Doctor was certain his entire face would shatter if he did.

“Hello, little one.”

“Don’t call me that.” The Doctor scowled deeply. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“What? Is it so hard to believe I could rule Gallifrey? Bend Time Lord society to my will?” Brax tilted his head, studying her in return. “Someone in this family must succeed and since it _clearly_ isn’t you, it falls to me.”

The Doctor’s lips curled into a snarl as she stepped further to the desk, planting her hands on the smooth surface. For his part, Brax only arched a brow up at her and the Doctor refused the urge to slap the condescending look off his face.

“Tell me why I’m here, tell me where Missy is, and tell me where my ship is. In that order, so I can get the hell off this planet.”

“I’m inclined not to, actually.”

“Stars, you’re so insufferable!”

Behind her the doors opened again.

“If you two are quite finished – Brax, do remove yourself from my seat.”

The Doctor’s gaze fell to the woman in white and gold robes who had entered, her brows knitting together in vague confusion. Brax stood immediately and stepped aside.

“You’re looking well, Doctor.” The woman added as she sat neatly behind the desk, offering a thin smile up to the Doctor who had watched the exchange with some amount of curiosity and confusion. The face. She knew the face. The woman. She closed her eyes a moment, trying to recall, sorting through the scattered files of her memories and lives until she landed on one many decades ago.

She opened her eyes, and grinned.

“Romana. You don’t know how good it is to see you.”

Romana’s smile softened at the edges, her expression one of sincerity.

“It’s good to see you too, Doctor. I like the look.”

The Doctor fell into one of the seats across from the desk, though the tension had not entirely left her body. She was still very much aware of her presence here against her will, and that Missy was likely somewhere very not good.

“And yours. You’ve changed your hair.” She remarked, studying this new Romana with her dark curls, bright eyes, and curious expression. Some things never did change. “And you’ve moved up in the world. Lady President?”

“The spot needed filling.” She offered cryptically, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I can see you’ve reacquainted yourself with my prime advisor, your brother.”

The Doctor met Brax’s gaze, who looked almost proud at his position.

“Honestly? I don’t know how you put up with him.”

Romana chuckled quietly, but offered no rebuttal. Part of the Doctor was dying to ask, a million questions racing through her mind, but her priorities were front and foremost.

“I don’t much care for your welcoming committee, though. And the fact my friend seems to be missing.”

“Koschei Oakdown is safe and secure for now, Doctor.” Romana’s expression shifted immediately into a neutral but stern look, business all around. She blinked at the use of Missy’s given name. “Her fate has yet to be decided on.”

“What do you mean?” The Doctor challenged, sitting up a bit straighter in her seat.

“When you were last on Gallifrey, you ousted my predecessor and shot a general into regeneration before plucking a human from a chrono-locked piece of time and setting her free. Just as you’ve now done with Koschei, who is a well known convict of the Time Lords for reasons I’m sure I don’t have to list to you, as they’re vaguely similar to some of the reasonings behind your once convictions, now pardons.” Romana continued. “The Time Council is regrettably angry at your actions.”

“Sod the Time Council.”

“My position here is delicate, you understand? I have the Time Council demanding a trial for both Koschei and you, where I’m certain the vote for either of your fates will not be to your favor. Missy would be returned to her timeline to die and you --- to be quite honest, I don’t know. But you’re my friend and I want to help.”

“Then tell me where Missy is. I’ll get her myself, steal a ship, and you won’t see us again.”

“You know I can’t do that, Doctor.” Romana frowned.

“And why the hell not? You’re the President – you can do anything you’d like!”

“That may be your thinking,” Brax cut in sharply. “but unlike you, Romana has a sensible head on her shoulders. Half this planet idolizes you, the other wants you dead. That puts you in a dangerous position.”

“Which is why I shouldn’t be here in the first place.” The Doctor replied. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

“To save Gallifrey.” Romana put simply. The Doctor stared at her evenly.

“I’ve already done that.”

“From the Time War, yes, and we’re ever indebted to your actions, irrational and dangerous as they were and nearly creating thirteen different paradoxes.” Romana quipped. “But we need you again.”

“Can’t you find someone else to start saving this planet? It’s old hat for me at this point.”

“Gallifrey is dying.” Brax added.

“Gallifrey’s always been dying. And it hasn’t. What’s changed?”

“We don’t know.” Romana said. “We can’t find the cause, but the planet is dying at an abnormally faster rate and if we don’t stop it or reverse it, Gallifrey’s children will never have a chance.” Her voice softened. “If you can help us, Doctor, I can grant Koschei – and you, again – pardons. You’ll be free, the both of you, no longer wanted criminals.”

“So you’re trying to blackmail me. I thought we were friends, Romana?”

“We are. Which is why I know you’ll do this. I wouldn’t have brought you here if we had any other choice.”

The Doctor glanced between Romana and Brax, lips drawn into a frown.

“---let me see Missy first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I still exist. I'd give you an excuse as to why I haven't updated this in so long but honestly, the only excuse I have is I've been writing other fic. BUT. I am back, so I hope you'll continue to enjoy this hot mess of a story with me.


	6. i'm the girl you'd die for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am continually floored by the positive feedback I'm getting on this fic! I want to apologize for the space between updates. Real life is a crazy hot mess, but I hope to be updating more regularly. Thank you for hanging on tight with me! Fair warning, there is some allusions to the not-so-great-time the Master had while in Gallifreyan prison as well as a bit of action at the end I'll think you'll like.

Gallifreyan prisons were not kind. They were cruel, merciless places that touted an escape rate of absolute zero during their time in function. Narrow cells with no windows, no doors, no furniture – nothing of any kind. Meant to trap you in your own mind, a veritable hell scape. A mind which they could control, if they so wished. Liars didn’t hold out for very long beneath the guards when they entered a Time Lord’s mind with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. They got any information they pleased, generally. Only a handful in existence had managed to thwart them even a little.

“Figured you’d be back in here.”

Missy blinked, refocusing her gaze on a spot on the opposite wall from where she sat on the floor. Cold seeped in through her clothes, icy fingers clawing at her skin. She blinked again, and pretended to ignore the absolute rail of a man who stood before her.

“Not talking? You remember how well that works out, Oakdown.”

“Heartshaven, isn’t it? You’ve changed your hair. I don’t think you could take me in a fight even soaking wet you narrow little bean pole. Do yourself a favor and crawl back into your rat hole.” Missy snarled. She remembered him intimately from her previous time in prison, though they’d both been wearing difference faces. How his mind had crowded into her own, taking without mercy until she was practically raw from the invasion and left to suffer afterward. She was certain one of her previous faces had earned a few physical scars from Heartshaven to go along with the mental ones. Not that she would ever give him the satisfaction of it again.

_Where are you, Doctor?_

“Watch your mouth, you disgraced excuse for a time gentry.” He snapped back. “They should’ve executed you the moment you set foot on this planet.”

“Do you promise?” Missy rolled her eyes in his general direction before she was suddenly on her feet. They stood nearly at the same height; oh, certainly she could take him in a fight.

“Sit _down_.”

“You’re the one who stepped into the lion’s den, Heartshaven. Don’t act so surprised to find the lion bites back.” Without warning her hand latched out to his throat and with ease, pressed him none too kindly against the wall with another snarl. To his credit, he hardly flinched.

“We both know you can’t lay a finger on me while I’m here.” She spoke evenly, eyes blazing. “Not this time. I’m sure your lovely President has ordered that. So stop posturing and remove yourself from my presence before I give the other guards a reason to come in here – spoiler alert, it’ll be to clean your blood stains off the walls.”

She released him, immediately retreating to the other side of the cell – which was only a few feet. Heartshaven glowered and rubbed his neck where she’d latched on. Behind him, the wall morphed into a brief portal of a doorway to allow him through, before it solidified back into a wall and she was left alone again.

“Better for it.” She muttered darkly to herself, and sat back down on the stone floor. Leaning her head back against the wall, Missy let her eyes close as she retreated into her mind.

Being on Gallifrey again made her sick. What had happened to the TARDIS had clearly not been an accident. When Time Lords wanted something they were egotistical enough to get it, whatever means needed. They needed the Doctor – she was just an unfortunate bit of collateral. Perhaps it would have been better for her to have died back on that colony ship. Gallifrey was more hell than the ship ever thought of being.

Her last visit to Gallifrey had been her last incarceration, of which the irony was not lost on her. She’d burned a planet to the ground in the Andromeda galaxy, destroying entire cities for a reason she can’t quite recall. The atmosphere had turned to ash and blanketed the ground, making it uninhabitable for the remaining survivors. She’d watched from beneath her umbrella as they suffocated to death, choking and begging for her to spare them.

She did not.

Not even the child, wheezing until she’d collapsed, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest in hopes it would magically help.

It had not.

Her eyes burned, and she reached up to wipe at her face. Her fingers came back damp with tears.

Why had she done it? The sheer fact that she can’t remember weighs on her until _she_ feels like she’s suffocating. Gasping for breath.

She struggles, nails raking across the stone beneath her.

“Stop it!” She screams into the empty cell, eyelids snapping open.

She can’t stay here. This is worse than the vault. At least she’d had the Doctor. Here, there is no one to hope for. No one to see her tears, no one to tell her why trying to repent is good and _damn it all to hell she is trying._ The fact the Doctor had bothered to save her life had given her just a glimmer of hope and Missy clung to it like a dying man, curling that small glimmer into her chest and nestling it away between her hearts.

The Doctor clearly saw something in her, something Missy would never see in herself. She was a monster. Good was an abstract concept. She had gone too far over the edge and scrambling back to the top was impossible. But with a hand up, not entirely improbable.

She would never be good. Not to the definition of Theta’s. But standing with the Doctor was something she could do. Something she could strive for.

Suddenly on her feet again, Missy moved to the wall – turned door and pressed her fingers against it, digging uselessly against the stone.

“Heartshaven!” She snapped at the wall. “Get back here so I can steal your access bracelet and slit your throat with it!”

To her utter amazement, the wall shifted again. Heartshaven was there, yes, but not alone.

“Doctor.”

The familiar sight was the breath of air she’d needed, and she felt the knot in her lungs lessen as the Doctor stepped into the cell.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Were you worried about little old me, dear? Nonsense. This cell, Heartshaven, and myself were merely getting reacquainted is all.” She managed, not missing the look of concern in the Doctor’s eyes. The other Time Lord’s hands hovered uselessly for a moment, before settling on her shoulders.

“I’m going to get you out of here. I swear it.”

“Somehow I don’t think she’s going to let you do that.” Missy murmured gently, glancing beyond – she hadn’t missed the fact that the Doctor wasn’t alone beyond the guard. “Fancy meeting you here, Romana. Lady President. Should I bow? Curtsy? Kiss your boot?”

“Koschei.” Romana stepped into the cell, her pristine robes a sharp contrast to the dim walls. “I want to help you.”

“You said that once, in the Academy. Right before you helped me right off the edge of that roof.”

“You deserved it.” Another voice added.

“Oh, Brax – you complete nuisance. They really let you back in here? It’s a little reunion, isn’t it? All of us standing in a Gallifreyan prison cell, discussing political and semi-illegal things. Just like old times, hm?”

“Missy.” The Doctor’s tone drew her attention back around to the other. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

She snorted.

_Don’t treat me like one of your human pets, Theta. You can’t promise things will be all right when we’re in a den of wolves._

Her mind sang across the empty space to the Doctor, who’s lips curled at the edges. She didn’t receive a mental or verbal response. The Doctor lifted a hand to her face and Missy stared at her, watching. Waiting. With a gently touch, the Doctor brushed away the remains of her earlier tears from her face, lingering just a fraction of a second too long. Long enough for Missy’s hearts to lodge somewhere in her throat and that glimmer of hope she’d been left with radiating like a damned sun.

“Blackmail?” She asked to the silence, clearing the uncertainty from her voice. “I expect my freedom comes with costs. You’re the President, not a miracle worker.”

“Essentially.” Romana conceded curtly. “However, I will choose to let the Doctor fill you in on that regard. For now, other arrangements have been made for your accommodations.”

“Just when I was feeling right at home.” Missy chirped. “Tell me, am I being thrown into the cloisters instead?”

“No.” It was the Doctor who answered.

_Stop pressing buttons. It took me nearly two hours to convince them of this._

Missy, not one to look a gift Time Lord in the mouth, snapped her mouth shut.

“Thank you.” The Doctor said aloud, directed at Romana who nodded once.

“My cousin will see you to your rooms.” She gestured at Heartshaven and Missy felt her lip curl instinctively. Heartshaven looked utterly murderous. Missy stuck her tongue out at him.

She didn’t breathe properly again until they were several floors away from the prisons. To be fair, the entire Citadel felt like a prison, but at least it had beds and fresh air and not the nasty things from down below – usually. As they ascended in a lift – her, the Doctor, and Heartshaven – she felt some of her earlier tension ease.

“Am I being released for good behavior?” Missy prodded quietly as they were led down another hall. The Doctor had yet to let go of her hand. Not that Missy minded, per se, nor was she going to immediately point it out. They hadn’t held hands in a very long time.

“Shush.” The Doctor murmured and for the first time, Missy studied her face. Truly studied her, at the very least. She was certain they hadn’t been apart for very long but already the Doctor looked as if the entire universe had dragged her down, crushing her beneath its weight. She looked wrecked, and in the worst sort of shape. Of course, no one else would notice but Missy prided herself on knowing the little nuisances about the Doctor. They carried through every regeneration, and were easy to pick out to someone how had been doing it all their lives.

Missy squeezed her hand, briefly.

_Don’t wear your burdens alone, Atlas. You’ve got me for at least a thousand years, let me shoulder some of the weight._

The Doctor didn’t reply.

They were shown to rooms Missy vaguely remembered from having spent time in the Citadel before all hell had broken loose. They were several steps above her previous conditions in the cell. A bed, a sitting area, an en suite, even a lovely little open air balcony. As soon as Heartshaven closed the door behind them she made a beeline for the balcony.

The air was laden with arton energy among the other myriad of scents that belonged inherently to Gallifrey. The Citadel was spread out before her, the gilded buildings gleaming in the dying light of the twin suns. Beyond the glass dome she could see the mountains peaking up. Nestled among their valleys were the meadows of red grass, the orchards of trees and the farmlands, everything that had been in the Doctor’s dreams hours ago. Days. She’d lost track of time. Now it was here, tangible and real and yet still nearly as untouchable as they had been in the dream.

“I’m sorry.” The Doctor said from somewhere to her left, and Missy gave a soft hum of acknowledgement, neither accepting or denying.

“For what?”

The Doctor seemed to flounder for a moment.

“That you were put in the cell to begin with.”

“You seem to be apologizing to me an awful lot lately, dear. Best be careful, one might start to get ideas.” She mused softly as the Doctor stepped up beside her. Surveying their view with a downward curl of her lips. She knew the Doctor detested the place as much as Missy did. The urge to run was overwhelming, but Romana had made it clear the consequences if they tried. The lovely bracelet Missy had been gifted would see to that – she wouldn’t be able to leave the presidential suites.

Or the Doctor, for that matter – Romana had saddled her with a bracelet as well, ensuring Missy was forced to maintain a certain distance within the Doctor’s radius. Clever.

Not that Missy would leave the Doctor on Gallifrey alone. Not again.

“Are you going to brood dramatically all evening, or tell me what’s happening? If you want my help, I’ll need the details.” Missy replied. The Doctor’s gaze settled on her. Missy frowned, then added softer: “I meant it. You don’t have to burden this alone.”

“I know.” Was the only response she received from the Doctor, who’s brows furrowed neatly in the middle. That was a new one. Her previous face had been all eyebrows and unruly hair but on this face it was almost endearing. The scrunch of her nose. Missy was compelled to kiss the wrinkle away as if it would release a fraction of the burden the Doctor seemed so intent to bear. Almost.

Almost.

The Doctor leaned forward then, and pressed her forehead to Missy’s in an intimate gesture. Immediately Missy’s mental barriers released, letting the warmth of Theta’s mind spill over into her own. Sometimes it was easier to speak without words, and she understood why as she watched the meeting with the president through the Doctor’s eyes. The emotions spilled over too, her reactions, her instinct to find Missy. The Time Lord swallowed thickly.

Missy couldn’t stop the small flood of emotions from her counterpart – that was always the danger with sharing a mental link. Things were often shared that shouldn’t have been. Emotions were tricky to control at best, and Theta had always been rubbish at it. She’d been rubbish at telepathy in general despite Missy’s attempts at tutoring back in the Academy.

She wasn’t certain which one of them leaned in further first, but the emotional high had pressed them both forward until they were kissing. It seemed spiteful, almost, Missy couldn’t help but consider, knowing how much Time Lords generally hated anything physical. She felt Theta’s amusement trickle across into her own mind and realized she’d shared that thought without intention.

 _Oh, well_.

Theta’s hand tangled into Missy’s hair, unbound and tangled as it was. The kiss was softer than she had been expecting and yet she yielded like butter against Theta, a pliable putty in her embrace. Her lips parted and she deepened it, not one to be left out of the control of the situation. Theta responded only in kind until Missy could only fist her hands into the opposite’s shirt and hold on. The feeling, the emotion spilling over into her mind, not to mention the energy of the air was almost heady, bringing back memories from a very long time ago when it had been two boys in a field of red against the world.

Theta’s grip tightened around her waist, almost possessively. Missy’s nails raked across her back. The longer they stood entangled in one another, physically and mentally, the longer Missy knew there would be no turning back.

Then again, had there ever been?

Their relationship over the centuries had evolved beyond what her mind had thought capable at their tender young ages, when Gallifrey had been the be all and end all of everything. Before the war had forced them into unexpected roles. Before their endless dance across galaxies and timelines. Had there been the chance to turn back, even then?

No, Missy mused, well aware Theta was privy to her every thought in that moment. Vulnerable.

There had been no turning back. They gravitated toward one another like two souls made of the same stardust, clinging to each other in a turbulent storm that had bruised and battered the both of them.

Theta’s fingers tugged sharply against her hair, another hand sneaking up from her waist and beneath her shirt to find bare skin. Missy hissed at the contact of her cold fingers, and retaliated with her nails across Theta’s scalp, teeth biting sharply against her lips. To her credit, Theta only seemed urged on and held her closer, if possible.

No, there had never been a chance to turn back, Missy pondered as the softness of the bed embraced them and Theta’s fingers found more and more of her skin, seeking it out like a moth to a flame.

No, there had never been a chance to turn back, Missy knew as her lips found Theta’s neck, teeth dragging along her skin as Theta’s fingers curled against her bare thigh, teasing the promise of making her see stars. 

She’d never wanted a chance to turn back.

Only this. Only the Doctor.

Only Theta.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D

**Author's Note:**

> Questions/Comments/Concerns are my fuel and I love them.


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